Page 52 of Faking It
“Can I help you?”
“Do you remember me from last night? From the bar? Wow, this is an incredible bus.” I didn’t respond but took in the perfectly done make-up and hair and already knew she was lying through her teeth. “I partied all night and now . . . now my phone is dead. I was wondering if maybe I could trouble you, you know, to get off my feet for a few seconds and use your cell to call a cab.”
She batted her lashes, stuck her tits out as far as possible, and tried to do the let-me-touch-your-arm-so-you-know-I-really-like-you routine. I’ve seen it a million times and it’s old and desperate.
“I’m not interested, but there’s a perfectly good hotel you just made yourself look pretty in at your back. You should go back there and ask them to use their courtesy phone.”
“C’mon, I’m just looking for a good time.” She tried to step into the tour bus but I just stood there, her body brushing against mine, the perfume she drowned herself in filling my nose.
“And I’m not.”
Just my fucking luck Robert happened to walk up when she was walking away.
“Robert. You’re being ridiculous. It wasn’t what you think it was.”
“All I know is that I have the two of you picture perfect on stage. Almost too perfect really. You’re selling the brand. You’re doing the song and dance . . . but for such a high profile couple, there’s nothing else out there. No midnight dinners at In and Out. No pictures of you kissing in a bar somewhere. Nothing.”
“I wasn’t aware that part of your marketing plan was to exploit my relationship outside of SoulM8’s canned promotion.”
“That’s not what I implied.”
“Like hell it is.” Now I’m pissed. No one tells me what to do, how to do it, least of all, Robert. Fuck yes, I need his connections to help to win this goddamn bet but I don’t need him looking over my shoulder every step of the way. “You may be a partner in this venture, Robert, but you don’t get to tell me how to run my relationship. You changed shit up already once when I didn’t want to.”
“And my changing it up and having you two as the face of the campaign has been successful.”
“But that’s where the line ends. We don’t have to open every part of our life for your approval. Harlow didn’t feel well last night so she suggested that she sleep in the hotel as to not get me sick and so she could go soak in the tub. Maybe have a little space. I came and sat in here, had a few drinks, and that woman who knocked on the coach this morning wasn’t my type last night when she tried to flirt with me and she sure as hell wasn’t this morning . . . so if you’re done trying to tell me how to live my life, then I’ll get back to the coach and the conference calls I have scheduled for the next few hours.”
The ice in his glass clinks when he sets it down on the table and his eyes measure whether he believes me or not. “What I can’t figure out, Zane, is if you’re being defensive to protect the woman you love or to protect a lie you’ve told me?”
“And I’m trying to figure out why if you don’t trust me, you went into business with me.”
There’s a cold smile on his face. The fucker is serious. Talk about being blindsided by a person when I never am.
He leans in and lowers his voice. “Fair enough . . . but just remember this, I may be old, I may be lonely, but I won’t be had.” He scoots his chair out and throws a few bills on the table for the drink. “If you’re lyi
ng to me, this deal is over and your reputation”—he shrugs nonchalantly—“you’re reputation will be done with in my circles.”
I don’t trust myself to say a word. Memories flood back. The threats of what I can and can’t do reinforced with an open palm to my cheek. The crash of the vodka bottle from his hands the first time I fought back. The vow I made myself to never allow someone to threaten me again.
To never live that life again.
I haven’t come this far to be told who to be, who to fuck, and how to run my business.
He’s not your dad, Zane. Just an investor wanting the same results as you do.
Success.
ZANE’S HEATED BREATH HITS MY ears and sends shivers down my spine.
I’ve successfully kept my promise to myself. The one I made when I left the hotel room this morning to make sure I kept busy, kept my distance physically from him, and kept my mind off of him.
Kept it that is, until right now.
Of course I participated in our dog and pony show tonight for our attendees. The sweet smiles on stage, the lingering glances, but I did so from afar. I made a point to always be on the move so I could avoid his touch.
Distance means a clear head. Space means I can avoid that weightless free fall of a crush that inevitably turns into a painful landing once you crash down to earth.
Because that’s what this is, isn’t it? A silly crush on a handsome and successful man that will amount to nothing. Not that I’d want it to either . . . but just . . . Zane’s breath hits my neck again and I lose my train of thought when his arms slip around my waist and pull me back against him. Every long lean hard inch of him.
